Ghosts of Overdoses…Not Dust…Blog Entries (and you can die from that too)

Whoa talk about an anxiety attack. No internet for over two weeks. And my cell phone died one day too. I can barely remember the days before cell phones. I can barely remember the days before blogs. I really wish I could though. I should re-prioritize my life, live the hippy dream like I’ve always wanted. Move to India with just a guitar, camera, and a…rug? (Hey Drew). But for now I’m going to overdose the virtual world with blog entrys, Morrison style. And I apologize, but I have a lot of worthless things to litter the world wide web with. Like this…

The Monkey Circus

Like most things, I have procrastinated the date of my graduation yet another 3 months on top of the 2 years of its original expected date. It seems like a long pregnancy, and I just want the thing to be out! Knowing my Mom and Dad will be reading this post I must honestly admit, graduation seems very anticlimactic at this point. And I have thought of various ways to make the whole pregnancy just go away. Including speeches such as this:

“Mom, graduation is just another hoop we light on fire and jump through to make some people feel more important than other people. It’s a circus and I don’t want to be the monkey you come and clap for.”

I doubt my parents would buy it. Which is good because it doesn’t make any sense, yet poetic right? Though a week ago, April 25th, the day I was supposed to graduate, the herds of monkeys in matching garb did look pretty silly.

My mom said in one of our many conversations about graduation, “It’s not for you! Graduation’s not for you! It’s for your senile old Mother!”

FINE!

Yukiyo and Fredrick

Growing, flowing, hanging pots of green, and my Grandma is the medicine woman. Pots and pots everywhere with a dictionary of names. Something moss and something flower. “Pua” is the Hawaiian word for flower, my grandma tells me as she hula dances around the room and my Grandpa sings along strumming his guitar. My grandma grows it. My grandma makes it. My grandma sows it. Imagine being so self-sufficient. Imagine a time when you had to be. She gets her eggs from her friend up the street who has chickens. They wash their dishes in the sink. And they pick vegetables from the ground. When did we get too proud to bend over and pick up the food we eat? Now it’s a job for those of a lesser social standing. Is two generations really that far apart?

My grandparents are the greatest. They are not too old to dance or too embarrassed to sing. Not too tired to stay up and talk. They love to laugh but mostly they just make me laugh.

Things that remind me of my Grandparents:

My Grandpa's huge Bonzai tree in the front yard.

Plumerias.

Hanging laundry and beach towels.

This Tree.

BBQ and pancit.

Asian slippers lined up by the front door.

Miniture BBQs. Everything is miniature.

Secrets of a Hair Stylist: Girls, Hair and Rock and Roll volume IV

Today I took a big step (those who know me understand this). Change is not something I eagerly embrace. And when I get my hair cut it’s always an anxiety attack. But today, with the help of Chelsi, I finally decided to embrace a change. After it was over I still felt insecure until Nicole, my hair stylist, said "You look Rock and Roll.” And then I realized my life wasn’t ending and I said, “huh Rock and Roll? Say it again.”



[yes that is Batgirl on my shirt]

Notes on getting your hair done: What is it about a woman with a pair of scissors and a blow dryer that makes us reveal all our deepest secrets and fears. It could be the fact we feel incredibly vulnerable at that moment. And they hold the scissors and therefore the power. Or maybe it’s the fact we are starring into the mirror for so long, we really are starring into our souls. And the hair stylist gets to share that honest and defining moment you have with yourself as you start venting all the things you keep secret. Whatever the reasoning (probably neither of these) nobody knows more about a girl then her hair stylist.



Another observation: At the end there is that awkward moment when you have to compliment your hair stylist because they did a good job and you want to reassure them of that. So you thank them with your flattery. But it’s a tricky situation if you do the math. Because when you take a peek into the mirror and say, “Oh my Gosh! It looks so cute! I love it!” What you’re really saying is “Oh my Gosh! I’m so cute. I love me!” It’s one of the many ways girls compliment themselves while believing they are complimenting others.

The American City

Through out American history there has always been a city that has exemplified the American spirit of the times. In the 18th century it was Boston, representing political radicalism. In the mid 19th century it was New York, the symbol of the melting pot. The 20th century Chicago, American dynamism. And today….our very own Las Vegas the symbol of our national character and aspirations. A city devoted entirely to entertainment! A city of billboards, of consumption, of mass production. They have even successfully mass produced Elvis. Where things are quick and ready to sell, like McDonalds, even marriage has a drive through window in The Vegas. It’s the American way!



So I spent a couple days in the American City. And Las Vegas, the “Kingdom of If” always convinces me, with its trickery, I was intended for something better. Where people roll the dice and hope to change a decade of bad breaks and an unhappy life with an eight. "Gimme an eight! Dang! Screw it how about some whiskey straight and that all you can eat seafood buffet for 9.99!"

Vegas the Goddess of Luck, with all its neon and glitz, was not smiling kindly on my friend Mikey on the roulette table. If only he wagered on red!

A few days down there gives me a false sense of importance. Oh boy but it feels kinda nice.

Went to L’atelier, Chef Robuchan's famous restaurant. We did the nine course Chefs tasting menu. It was incredible everything was like a painting.




Then I finally saw a Cirque du Soleiel show, “Ka.” I was shocked at how good it was. It was incredible! Collapsing stages and crazy monkey trapeze artists and falling sand. It was like Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon meets Lord of the Rings slash Narnia. Except that it didn’t really have a story. But that didn't matter cuz you were too busy being like "Whoa."



In the Vegas you can always wear shades cuz the sun never sets in Vegas.

A Spoonful...

It seems maybe I have a complex. Maybe we all do. An unadvertised side effect of modern day is the fear we are barely existing. Barely existing in a system that forces us to memorize nine numbers and deny we have souls (Bright Eyes). We find ways to deal with this dilemma. Myspace and Facebook pages and blogs that scream out “I existed.” Here’s my favorite song, listen it’s playing! This is my sexual orientation and my picture! I took it with my cell phone with my shirt off. Aren’t my muscles big? And I love chocolate! Do you love chocolate? Radical, then comment on my page. Look aren’t we totally existing?

Jokes aside, I have my ways of dealing with it too. A couple months back an older man came into my restaurant all by himself. He was really interesting, as most people who come in by themselves to dine and drink expensive wine are. He was a writer. He told me I should write for an hour everyday, even if it is garbage and it usually is. It’s usually vomit on a page, that’s what I call it. But I have noticed a difference in my writing and how clear my mind gets. I think everyone should write for an hour a day.

The next step: My friends and I are all writing individual short stories. Each story has to be written under the same title: Chasing the Green Fairy. Then we’ll bind them in a book. I think its going to be one of the coolest things I own. I’m really looking forward to the final product.

Moral of the Story: (besides my friends and I are working on the coolest project ever!) Everyone should write for one hour every day. Docs orders (well actually the writer on table 9).

Dream Places

Went to Kauai for Christmas and it was awesome. I think Kauai is the most beautiful place on the earth.



Kauai is one of the few islands that have fought the tourist plague that has washed through other quaint Hawaiian towns and replaced them with ABC stores, coconut bras and hula girl bobble head dolls.
Side thought: Tourists are terrorists with cameras. Terrorists are tourists with guns.


Hananlei, a stubborn town that has fought the plague as well. It seems to been winning, but money talks and always wins. I’m dreading the day the quaintness of Hanalei meets the ogre of tourism.



In Hanalei Waterfalls spring up at random down the green canyon walls into taro field valleys. Floods close rivers and bridges and nobody cares. And when it rains its stays 80 degrees.



A hammock, a camera, a notebook and pineapple juice is all I’d need for the rest of my life in Hanalei. I could go there and never come back.

People are lazy here, and why not? Words in sentences are taken out if they are not absolutely necessary. Hawaiians have taken out the western mans need for excess and corpulence. It’s called pigeon. One of the few things the Hawaiians hold on to.

In Kauai there are more roosters than people. They are beautifully colored like the island.



Even the dirt is deep red. And it paints everything it touches like my shoes. My Hawaiian souvenir: my red, once white, shoes. With all the hurricanes the locals build their houses on stilts. It looks like a circus of houses balancing carefully.






Kauai is a treat for my senses. Fresh fruit from the tropical garden. I had banana macadamian nut pancakes with coconut syrup almost every morning and pineapple juice. Everything is spectacular and breathe taking. Summer dresses are always in style and sweaters are always out. And it rains and washes the red dusty roads and the trade winds chase the sun westward. Kauai is a dream place not just because of its price tag.



Last thought:
There are four ways to make something (a place) yours. Or I guess, four ways men feel like a place can become more than a place to them:

1. Build on it, fence it off, put a flag in the dirt (modern man, western mans mind set)
2. Paint it, photograph it (the artist)
3. Hike it- defeat it in some way
4. There is one last one but I wont say what it is here

I tried to make Kauai mine by taking an excess of pictures check it out.

My Kauai Photos

Happy Thanksgiving!!

Though my heart and arteries may think otherwise, I’m grateful for this land of corpulence. Though, in obesity, Americans may be pouring out of their designer clothing, I'm grateful we’re not hungry in America. My cupboards are always stocked, my belly is always full and my tastebuds are always happy. I’m grateful for milk and honey and when feeling sinful a chocolate truffle cake.

For technology. That mechanical doors really do open like we trust they will and for cruise control so my foot can rest till it has arrived at its desired destination.

For virtual connections. So I can keep tabs on all the people in my life, whether they know it or not.

For simple pleasures. Coca-Cola. Lunch dates. Good movies. Reuniting with old friends. An album I can play from start to finish a thousand times. And chocolate, not the waxy kind but the velvety kind that coats my mouth and makes me happy.

I’ve said this before, I’m thankful for good friends who like to act silly and live silly.

I’m grateful for a Mom and Dad, who still both equally harass and nag me [hi Mom and Dad] and still pay my cell my phone bill. I’m grateful for a family that I can be proud of, and am.

Happy Thanksgiving!

The Great Adventure

I’ve been strange-feeling since I saw “Into the Wild.” Have to fight the constant urge to be someplace else. So I finally decided to be someplace else. I grabbed my friend Matt, who is a fan of unplanned and spontaneous adventures, and we headed South, the direction of warmth.

Steinbeck has said that maps can be tyrants. We can be so immersed in road maps that we never actually see the country in which we travel. Matt and I became anarchists, for the most part, against maps and itineraries, however being lost became the side effect of abandoning road map tyranny.

Our journey began in Price, Utah at the Cowboy Kitchen, which translates to "a smoky chamber with no windows." We were greeted by an enthusiastic waitress who suffered through her early morning shift with our requests for ridiculous pictures and our obnoxious comedy. She laughed at our silliness which made it easy to forgive her for the dirty glasses, the fermented Orange Juice and the curious smell that lingered in the dining chamber with no windows.

Our trip was filled with many adventures that my memory will now exaggerate. Along the path to Devils Garden we lost our way. We created our own path through a steep canyon that dropped down into the layer of some large desert creature, my imagination will now call Mountain Lion, whose footprints were left fresh in the sand for our discovery. This quickened our pace, and heightened our sense of hearing. It sharpened our eye sight to which every rock became a growling predator.

Once we found the trail again, we almost stepped on a rattle snake if it weren’t for my paranoid sense of hearing. Lisa and Elmer, a strange couple we met on the trail, found our rattlesnake discovery very interesting and we found their fake English accents interesting as well.

I almost fell off a cliff on multiple occasions. Sister Sanchez, a friendly Filipino lady, comforted me atop the cliff edge of Delicate Arch, which was neither delicate in appearance, in reaching nor on my nerves, (and its much more incredible in person than our Utah license plates portray). Sister Sanchez comforted and distracted me while Matt danced around the slippery sandstone cliffs. I was left frozen between two rocks unable to move, convinced the rock I was wedged against was shifting and moving, and my feet could not find themselves secured to the Earth.

I was almost run off the road by a semi truck and then we were almost flooded out of the enclosed hot tub chamber by the Archway Inn staff.

It was decided that Arches National Park and all its attractions should be renamed, and Matt and myself were nominated to inherit this responsibility. We already have begun. Such names were conceived “Dark Angel and her Eternal watching Fan/ Priest” “Franky Four Fingers” “The All-Seeing Eye” “Melting Woman” “Black Eagle” “The Cobra” “the Adoring Monk” “Vomit Stripes Arch” “Skin Flesh Arch” “Dancing Fire Toes Arch” We thought our names were much more interesting than “balanced rock” or “Panorama Point.”

We also created a silly game/ competition in which we set the camera on a ledge and set the timer. Before the picture snapped we had to race to and pose ourselves at our impossible destination. Our pictures proved just how ridiculous this game was.

Our trip turned out to be exactly what I needed, and before we even got back to Provo I found myself planning the next great adventure.

Pictures from our Great Adventure

Like a Rolling Stone

When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose..


I think I loved this movie so much because I imagine jumping in my car and leaving everything behind terribly enticing. Mark Twain says its “lights out for the territory.” Steinbeck calls it the “itch” we all feel or should feel to escape the monotony and cruelty of our complicatedly simple lives. Dylan a rolling stone. I’ve already been tempted before by both Steinbeck and Dylan to travel North America with my RV, my camera and my guitar.

This movie identifies both the urge we all have and the problem we all share, even if its only occasionally, in our culture and the urge to step out of it to a different reality. It’s not jumping in a van and living like a hippy but identifying your significance or lack of in nature. On his journey he shares his friendship and philosophy with several on the road, learns about their lives and helps with their problems.

Into the Wild: A couple of life lessons:
We must all set out on our journey to discover our small place in the big world
We need the help and friendship of those around us and vise versa

the beginning of the end

People are strange. We don’t pick up the phone anymore to call. We text. We don’t meet in the break room. We email. We don’t knock on peoples doors. We myspace. We’re all connected. Just a click away, or a myspace friend apart. We’re probably in each others extended network.

I’m a product of these crazy times, so I’m much better socially in a virtual context. In other contexts I’m mostly awkward. This is my attempt at staying connected to friends and family. I’m staking claim to this small chunk of cyber space to post mostly things of little relevance to really anything. I am excited for this bit of silliness. I hope your sleepless late night blog binges will bring you to my modest slice of virtual space. Enjoy?....at least indulge me a little.